


The Ballad of the Broken Sky (Set the Stars on Fire)

by Judas_Iscariot



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: (as in: Paul can't live without Hugh and everything hurts), Crazy shit happens, Fix-It, M/M, Paul fucks the network up oops, Tardigrade, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War, adding additional tags as the story continues, alien planets, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:59:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judas_Iscariot/pseuds/Judas_Iscariot
Summary: The war against the Klingons may be over now, but Paul Stamets' own war has only just begun. Because he would give up the entire universe, but nothim.





	The Ballad of the Broken Sky (Set the Stars on Fire)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is my first attempt at writing an English Star Trek-fic. (English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry for any mistakes!)  
> This is also the first time since the last Ice Age that I write anything at all. What can I say, my Space Gays are just very inspiring. Now, I hope you'll enjoy this first part and I hope I can manage to write the rest sooner rather than later.  
> And please let me know what you think!  
> (Oh and no, this is not a Ballad but after thinking about a title for like 3 hours, this is the most I could come up with haha so yeah, might change it if I find a better one.)  
> (I'm actually p nervous about posting this aahhhhh)

  
  
**1\. Prologue ~ Tonight when the sky is burning**  
  
 

 

 

Stamets woke up to the sound of dripping water. Groaning, he turned around, not sure where he was or how he got here or if he should even care. The mattress beneath him was hard and stunk of things he didn't want to think about, and his back was soar from laying on it for too long. Although, it couldn't have been too long. He wasn't able to sleep these days after all; not after everything that had happened, not after losing _him_. The memories came back whenever he closed his eyes, and _yes_ , he'd actually listened to some friendly advice and _mourned_ and tried to _go on_ , but Hell was it hard not to break apart under the weight of loss. He found he couldn’t do it.

So when the _Discovery_ was on her way to Starbase 31 for a check-up, some repairs and the plan to get Stamets to see some doctors so they could remove the implants _(the ones Hugh had made)_ and find out what effects the Mycelium network had actually had on his brain (and honestly, Stamets didn’t have the best feeling about this), he knew he had to get out of there. He recorded a quick message (an apology, a farewell, an explanation, he didn’t know) that he left on his work station so Tilly or someone else would find it eventually. He packed a few things (the second time since the incident that he'd stepped into his and Hugh's room again, forcing all emotion down, going about his task as clinical as he could manage), including a few spore containers; everything that fit into his bag.

And then he'd stolen a shuttle and was gone. (He hardly knew how to fly one, although he had done so a couple of times in the past, and had certainly watched enough people do it. But somehow he'd gotten the damn thing started and had been out in space before anyone noticed; he'd ignored every message and try to communicate, and flew on without looking back. He'd felt incredibly guilty and had to swallow all the shame down so it wouldn’t eat him alive.)  
  
And somehow, some time later, he'd found himself dearly needing some rest, just as he was getting near to Alba IV, a planet he'd read about but never actually visited. Originally uninhabited by intelligent life, it became a hotspot for tourism and the rich rather quickly, due to the deep clear seas and beautiful nature. Now there were huge hotels and spas, everything shining and expensive and overall very luxurious.  
Stamets doubted he could pay for more than a night, but he'd take the chance. He needed some sleep.

Now, there were always two sides to every coin. While the one side, the obvious one that people mostly looked at, was full of luxury and holiday and high golden buildings with the perfect view over the sea, there was also another one. Small villages, built from the garbage of the cities, where the poor lived. Propertyless souls of many a species, trying to profit from the rich tourists; be it by selling drugs, robberies or simply waiting for a benefactor in any kind of bar or just around the street corner. But for most of them, the treasured riches would always stay a dream out of reach; they'd all die in the gutter sooner or later, trying to make their miserable lives as bearable as possible, good even. Gambling, prostitution, drugs, bars, knowing you weren't the only one who's suffering.  
  
Finally remembering the circumstances of how he'd come to stay here, Stamets sat up. He'd underestimated the price for a hotel room in the city (not even a fancy one, for Heaven's sake, just a _bed!_ ) and after wandering around aimlessly (and unsuccessfully) he was talked into staying in a tiny, filthy... _room_ , with all inclusive (mice (with yellow eyes and two tails), dripping water, nasty stench, mould, tin sheets as walls so he wasn't safe from the wind, and World's Hardest Mattress).  
Short, everything he didn't exactly desire as a place to stay.  
  
But that's what it was, what it has been for the last week. He had a goal after all and somehow, he would get there. His plan was only vague but at least he had one, and so he stood up to get to work. But he paused. A bitter smile tugged on the corner of his mouth. _'Get something to eat first'_ , he could hear Hugh's voice in his head. Dead but still taking care of him... Paul shook his head and went out to find something edible.  
  
And the day continued as ever – he'd gotten in a kind of routine in no time. Get up, eat, work, going out to look for any piece of electronics or steel or whatever he needed now to get going with his project, work some more, fall asleep as exhaustion takes over; repeat.  
He was making progress, he knew it, but still the feeling haunted him that it went all too slowly. He was growing more impatient by the hour when he knew he wasn't allowed to make mistakes; so he took a deep breath, counted to three, and slowed down. He didn't want to risk making mistakes – _couldn't._ There was too much at stake. So he pushed all the anxiety and impatience and despair far away.  
  
It took him another four days to get close to something like a result. He got out the container with the spores and set it up in the machine he'd built – his own smaller variation of the Spore Drive. He had no idea if this could actually work, but if there was only the smallest chance of getting Hugh back, he'd take it. Even if it meant engaging in an unsafe self-experiment, having your mind get caught in the Mycelial network again and being ready to ignore every and all consequences.  
He gave the container a quick kiss. „Please let this work“, he mumbled before he connected the self-built drive to the implants on his arms and then pressed the button to start the process.  
  
No, Paul Stamets wasn't religious, not at all. But in that moment, he sent out a quick prayer as he closed his eyes and laid his head back.

 

\- - -

  
  
  
His mind was torn between a billion universes and even more stars and galaxies and oh the possibilities! He saw everything at once, knew every secret the universe had to offer, but he couldn't grasp it. It was always in the back of his head, or on the tip of his tongue but always out of reach, like a slowly fading dream that you _know_ you can remember but in the next moment, it's gone and all that's left is the sensation of it and the everlasting frustration that you've been _so. close._  
And Paul knew this feeling all too well. It was not his first time here, after all, far from it, but he knew something was different when the chaos of stars and universes and galaxies and possibilities only got worse and he lost all orientation. „Hugh!“, he called out, but his voice and its infinite echos got lost in time and space. There was nothing he could do except trying to hold onto one straw - one root - so he wouldn't get torn apart and be scattered across the universe.  
But the network tore at his entire being, screaming at him that he wasn't supposed to be here, not like this, and he knew that he _had_ made a mistake somewhere along the way and his machine wasn't working the way it should – not to a hundred percent anyways. Never had he felt as repulsed by the network as now, not even when Lorca had changed the code and sent them to the parallel universe.  
He screamed as everything went black.

 

\- - -

   
  
When Paul opened his eyes again, blinking against the bright light that was all around him, his entire body hurt. He groaned against the pain in his head and turned around, but when he did he realized that he wasn't in his sorry excuse of a room on Alba IV anymore. It wasn't the mattress that made his back ache. It was the ground. Dry, dusty earth all around him. His vision went blurry - _where the Hell...-?_ \- and he collapsed back onto the ground.


End file.
